


Light Breaks Where No Sun Shines

by OasisTrap



Series: The Turning World [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Divergence (in some parts), Character Study, Exhausting backstory, F/M, Fluff, Heck if I gonna tell what's coming next, House Trevelyan is tight, Multi, Original Character(s), Slow Burn, Some angst, Some humour, and make their lips bleed, like so slow you want to punch them in the face, so that they could kiss each other already to numb the pain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 12:57:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9897992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OasisTrap/pseuds/OasisTrap
Summary: On one side, a family divided and scattered across Thedas. They are the Herald of Andraste, a Qunari who had lost his roots, a nomad rogue with daredevil tendency, a cunning politician in the theatre of lies, and a templar with impenetrable ideals. Joining them are a commander at war with himself and a Seeker of Truth looking for purpose. Behind them, an army of believers and non-believers, bonded by hope.The other side is reserved for an ancient god and the nightmares of his enemies.The board is ready and the game is on.





	1. Prologue - Modest in Temper, Bold in Deed

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a Dylan Thomas poem.
> 
> Some things are totally of my own fabrication (for example the entire political shenanigans with the Ostwick Circle and the outrageous backstory of the Trevelyans), but I try to make the details as close to the lore and the main story as possible. Dragon Age Wikia is my bible.
> 
> Updates might be slow because I have, like, 10 things to do at once all the time. Even now.
> 
> Also, I don't have a beta reader (yet, if you're interested, please do tell me *wiggles eyebrows* even better if you read something here and think "wait a minute, that's not possible!") and English is not my first language.

 

Trevelyan Estate, Ostwick, the Free Marches. Dragon 9:28

 

 

Rosalind pulled open the drapes to the first sun they’ve gotten in weeks after endless rain and thunderstorm, a normal occurrence in Ostwick during the first quarter of the year. As the clouds shifted, the reluctant sunlight shone through the window and fell on a small pot of Crystal Grace she had kept on her windowsill. She had to remember to ask one of the servants to take care of it and keep it inside or else it wouldn’t survive the abundance of Ostwick’s damp air and rainy days. A delightful Dalish Elf she met in the Grand Tourney four years ago had given her the seeds, and now the pale blue of the flowers was the only glaring shade of colour in her dreary bedroom.

She could still remember clearly how the Dalish was not at all like what most people say they were—distant, unfriendly, cold—she even helped her, a silly eight year-old girl in her first venture of the woods, to find her way back to the camps when she was lost in the midst of her exciting exploration. She guided Little Rosalind by her tiny hand while teaching her songs in Dalish tongue. She laughed merrily at the child’s endearing effort to pronounce elvish words, sending shoulder-length black hair flying in the wind that carried her musical voice away. Little Rosalind was enamoured with her, the first elf she had ever met and everything about her was fascinating, even her strange haircut. It was partly shaved with a tiny braid on the side, very elven. The kind of hair that would most likely offend the nobles in the Ostwick court, she had thought. Such wild appearance among them would put frowns on faces and fuel gossipy whispers like oil to a flame.

But at this moment Rosalind was ages away from the feelings that the remembrance usually brought. She could no longer feel the freedom of the woods that embraced her, away from the stone walls and cold grey pavements of Ostwick. She could no longer feel the warmth of the Dalish Elf’s smile as she opened her palms to show her a handful of seeds she brought from the Hinterlands.

 _“in Ferelden!” Little Rosalind had exclaimed in wonder._ _“I wonder what kind of plants they have there. Anyway, people say that Ostwick is the most Fereldan state in the Marches, but I find it hard to believe. We’ve met Fereldans on our way to Tantervale, and they couldn’t be more different than the people in Ostwick!”_

_“How so, little one?” The Elf asked in amusement._

_“Well, for starters, their colours were much more lighter. They were all light browns, red, and blue. Ostwick is all black and gray, even the sea.”_

A knock on the door echoed in the largely empty room.

“Milady? Your father is waiting for you downstairs.” A soft-spoken maid called from outside.

“I’ll be there when I’m ready.” Rosalind answered too harshly, to her immediate regret. She had behaved like a petulant child over the last few days. None of the servants deserved to be treated like that, but she couldn’t help it. Pushing away everything that made the Estate her home was one way to make a long goodbye bearable. The finality of her departure was suffocating her with the unfamiliar bareness of her bedroom.

All her clothes and provisions were already downstairs, inside the carriage with House Trevelyan’s heraldry painted on its sides, courtesy of her noble birthright. The exuberant carriage would take her all the way to the Circle, just outside the city. Rosalind had protested against using it and tried to compromise by asking to be accompanied by one servant, but her father begged to differ. He had said that it would make him look like he was abandoning her mage daughter and dismissed her pleading with a stern lecture about honour and family duty and not being cowardly.

In any other respectable family in Ostwick, she would already have been cast away for being a mage. House Trevelyan was quite different in their stance on this custom.

Bann Rudolf Leucetius Hal Trevelyan, the patriarch, had resigned from the Templar Order in the wake of his father’s death, and married Senior Enchanter Elianna Valerius; a brilliant mage with strong opinions concerning the Circle’s broken system. At first, the arrangement was criticised as a very convenient escape strategy for the Senior Enchanter who once threatened to leave the Ostwick Circle in the middle of a formal hearing with all Enchanters and templar superiors present. Following the event, some people went as far as calling her out on blasphemy and accusing her for putting Bann Trevelyan in some sort of a blood magic spell. Rosalind was certain that the truth was far more complicated than that, but the details were scarce and even her inquisitive tendency didn’t succeed in gaining the necessary information from the ever-gossiping maids. The only notable detail for them was that her father had rather dramatically proposed marriage to the Senior Enchanter in the middle of the very same hearing where she was condemned as a potential apostate and heretic.

_“Like in the novels!” the maids sighed collectively in awe. “You’d never expect the Most Honourable Bann himself could be so romantic.”_

Their shared political view and formidable will paved the way for House Trevelyan as the most influential noble family in Ostwick. Even the Teyrn himself would never dare to cross Bann Trevelyan, as they were both close acquaintances since childhood and held each other in high regard. But their influences couldn’t change the heavily flawed Circle Law.

_It was an uncharacteristically cloudless day for Ostwick five years ago when Rosalind first found out that her fascination of thunderstorms was not just because of childish excitement that came from the display of blinding flashes and boisterous sound that follows. In a fit of rage due to her older brother’s teasing, she had called down a lightning strike and accidentally burned a tree in the Estate’s backyard. Needless to say, everyone in the household was shocked by the sound. Servants left their work and rushed to the west wing windows. Guards took arms and ran to the garden only to find a crying Rosalind in the grim embrace of young master Malcolm. The blackened birch tree behind them gave away the thick smell of ash in the air._

_Later that night, Bann Trevelyan gathered the whole family and staff in the Estate. Every single servant, maid, cook, and resident knight stood at attention, while the Trevelyan siblings huddled in the left corner. The Bann took his place on the second flight of stairs to stare at every face present and gave his speech._

_“The outside world does not take kindly to the forces they don’t fully understand, and not for a bad reason.” The Bann had put on his authoritative facade that gives away no emotion on his person. “But they are also fearful, and it makes them dangerous.”_

_Douglas, Tybalt, and Malcolm, who had stood protectively on both sides of their little sister as their father spoke, scooted closer at the word ‘dangerous’, as if trying to shield her. Three young men, one of them barely an adult, protecting their precious little jewel of a sister. Rosalind was still shaking, both from fear and an incomprehensible restlessness inside her. For a terrifying second, she thought she had seen sparks of electricity on her fingers. Then, a large gray hand came to rest on her right shoulder. Their resident Qunari mage, Varuna, had taken a place behind the little girl and stared down at her with a calming smile. She smiled back and balled her hands into hard fists, dismissing the trickle of energy trying to flow out of her grasp._

_“My wife had been fighting for years to make the Ostwick Circle a safe place for mages and templars alike. Today, long after her death, her cause is more important than ever. Her wish was simple, that no children of hers or anyone would be turned away at the door of the Circle or be harmed in any way under its authority.”_

_At his words, the Bann’s eyes met Varuna’s glance, and a silent understanding passed between them while Rosalind watched mutely in curiosity._

_“The Ostwick Circle today is not yet the Circle she had envisioned for our children. Because of that, I ask every single one of you to honour her wish for the sake of my daughter and other mages yet unborn or undiscovered in this city. I have been preparing for a Council hearing to present a new set of laws that I’ve prepared with the Teyrn’s support. Changing the Local Circle Law is the first step to ensure the safety of everyone in the Circle. Until the amendment has passed, I will not let them get their hands on my daughter, and any of you who disagree have no place in our family. Any questions asked outside this estate will go no further than just that, questions.” He turned his stare around the room, briefly holding each person’s gaze. Nobody moved an inch._

_“Andraste’s grace be upon you all, and may the Maker preserve us in the fight for our righteous cause.”_

_Two weeks later, the Circle refused the proposal._

_The same afternoon, Rosalind opened her bedroom door to the towering presence of Varuna. He was grinning widely and slouching forward to avoid hitting the threshold with his protruding horns, making him look rather silly. Especially because his entire body was still outside the doorway and only his head was inside the room. Rosalind had giggled at the sight and asked him politely, “Messere Varuna, what are you doing here?”_

_“Why, young lady,” the Qunari cocked his head to the side. “I’m here for your first lesson in magical restraint, of course.”_

Her first lesson five years ago remained as the most important knowledge she would ever gain as a mage. She doubted that anything she’d learn in the Circle would come close. “Needs, desires, and extreme emotions govern your magic,” Rosalind muttered the words to herself as she sat with her back ramrod straight in front of the mirror in the very same bedroom when Varuna first taught her the basics of controlling her power. She took a long, hard breath, puffed her chest, and forced herself to look at her reflection in the eyes with hard determination. “Don’t let yourself be ruled by them.”

Rather than determined, she just looked plain tired. The circles under her eyes had become more prominent in the last week leading to her move to the Circle, and her cheeks were getting thinner. Rosalind pouted at her reflection and folded her arms. “Some great Enchanter-to-be, you are, Trevelyan. Talking to yourself, too.”

Hiding her magical ability for five years had taken a toll on Rosalind’s mind. At first, she understood the necessity of it. Her father was fiercely protective and it was one of the only few expressions of love that he was able to show her. Yet, in the end of the fourth year, she fought his will ruthlessly. She had done hiding, and nothing The Honourable Bann do would keep her from telling the world who she really was, especially after she had learnt about the treatment of mages in the Circle. The knowledge only made her more restless in hiding, and even Varuna agreed to help her convince her father to let her go to the Circle.

Yet, the Rosalind Trevelyan in the mirror didn’t look ready to leave behind her life in the Estate. She only had hours before the gates to the Circle closed behind her, trapping her inside with mages and templars who would despise her for her family name. The Bann had done the best he could to remind her of the few allies there, those who still remember the kindness of Elianna Valerius. They would be her shelter, he said. They would protect her where he couldn’t.

There was no comfort for her in his words, only vague possibilities.

As Rosalind frowned at her reflection, it occurred to her that the person in the mirror was exactly who everyone thought a Lady Trevelyan would be. Long brunette locks, regal nose courtesy of the Bann, light green eyes of her mother, and mouth that more than often got her into trouble, also inherited from her mother.

Rosalind Trevelyan was thirteen years old and she wanted to be an Enchanter. After that, she wanted to travel across Thedas to Ferelden, Orlais, and everywhere. She wanted to see a dragon in flight. She wanted to climb a mountain in the middle of a thunderstorm. She knew she didn’t want to be her mother. Elianna didn’t do any of those things. She died without ever taking a step outside Ostwick because no matter how hard she fought against the Law that bounded her existence, she still couldn’t win.

She died without ever knowing the free spirit that was her only daughter, so how come people had the nerve to keep her alive through Rosalind? Clearly, it was just because of her looks, which wouldn’t help her now as she prepared herself to be thrown into a wyvern cage full of Elianna Valerius haters.

It suddenly occurred to her that she knew who she really wanted to be.

Wild, free, boundless. The image of the Dalish stranger was in her mind as Rosalind took the scissors on the table in front of her and started snipping away her brown locks on the right side as short as possible.

 

###

 

            On top of a hill nearby the estate, Malcolm Trevelyan stared at his baby sister’s window from afar. The horses had been tied to the carriage, and the servants were anxiously waiting near the front door. They were all loyal to the Bann and the family, more akin to soldiers and agents than servants and maids. Yet, Malcolm had succeeded to escape their notice. Rosalind’s imminent departure weighed heavily on everyone’s mind, and nobody noticed him gathering his own provisions, slipping through the back door, and walking away from the Estate with absolutely no intention of coming back.

            This was him turning back only once, to say a silent goodbye to his dear sister. With her finally going to the Circle, he had no more reason to endure life in the Estate. Douglas had left for Orlais years ago, and Tybalt was currently in his fourth year of templar training. His father would never abandon the estate, and that was enough reason to make him go.

            He hated the nobility life, and often shared his thoughts of leaving Ostwick with his sister. They always talked about all the adventures they could have, sailing past the Waking Sea, crossing Ferelden to explore Kocari Wilds, looking for dragons in the Hissing Wastes.

            Of course, it was before she discovered her magic.

            Malcolm saw his sister change and they drifted apart from each other. She became quiet and reserved, choosing to lock herself inside her room to read their mother’s tomes or practicing minor spells with Varuna. He understood the burden that she had to bear with the awakening of her powers, but she also had left him alone to tend to their father’s reserved temper. For that, he could not forgive her, abandoning him to face that despicable man on his own.

The Bann was mostly cold and aloof with everyone. Douglas, the future heir, tolerated this side of him as they bonded over their shared interest in politic manipulations (or politicking, as the Orlesians call it). Tybalt, who had the biggest heart in Ostwick, was warm and happy and loving, and he embraced every single one of his siblings, even their father, with unrestrained joy. Rosalind was the precious gem of the family, closely guarded and protected even when she closed herself from everyone else.

            Malcolm was the estranged son who didn’t fit in, unintentionally left behind by his siblings while they found their own things to deal with. He had not gotten any higher calling to serve the Chantry like any other leftover sons of a Bann or any interest in the backstabbing business of nobility. He couldn’t very well follow Rosalind to the Circle, either. One thing he realised as he got older was that he needed to become his own man, to find his own way forward.

            Treading a path of his own making, Malcolm took his first step away from the Estate under Ostwick’s first sunshine in months. Regret of walking away from his only home weighing him down, but it had no power over the exhilarating sense of freedom he sensed in his future.

 


	2. Chapter 1 - Claim Heaven By Violence, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kith: Qunlat for a small military unit
> 
> This chapter is unbetaed.

Haven, Frostback Mountains, Ferelden. Dragon 9:41.

 

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.” Katoh swore under her breath as she led her kith towards the gate of Haven village where soldiers had gathered, stomping her feet in frustration as she realised that the path further up the mountains had been closed already. “Whose fucking idea was it to send our marching orders just _five days_ before the Conclave when we were in the nug-ass end of Orlais?” She asked her second-in-command, Adaar, for the third time since they began their rushed journey from the Western Approach.

“The messenger’s fault, captain. You’ve done a number on him already.” He replied lamely. The messenger had endured Katoh’s impotent rage with what’s left of his dignity when he delivered the orders two days behind schedule.

The obviously late and tiredly grumbling team approached the first barricade blocking the road to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. At the sight of them, a solitary soldier stepped lightly in front of his colleagues who were at least had a measure of sense to look slightly daunted in the face of a group of tall, huge, and grumpy-looking Qunaris.

“Just where d’ye think you’re going?” The soldier greeted loudly in his Starkhaven brogue as he put himself between Katoh and the barricade, seemingly oblivious to their sour mood. He had lines of ink on his face, one along the left side of his nose and four on his chin. His armour was adorned with what Adaar recognised as the all-seeing eye on its breastplate. His gait was relaxed, but it was clear he would not be moved from the spot by anything. Not even them, even though the possibility of having his spine broken into two halves was quite high with the present general air around the kith. “You’re late and the talk is now in session. That means nobody is going up or down for a while until the first recess.”

“And you are the human in charge?” Katoh sneered disbelievingly. Her sour mood seemed to have worsened by the soldier’s easy bearing. “We’re contracted security from Orlais. We won’t be joining the talk, just regrouping in the outer ring of the temple.” She pulled a missive from her belt and shoved it on his tattooed nose, forcing him to jerk his head back a couple inches to read the words clearly. “See for yourself.”

“Yes, I see.” He raised his brows and looked away from the missive when he realised that the Qunari was very much a _female_. He calmly appraised her from horn to toe with a small smirk, almost like appreciating the flattering qualities of a fine lady instead of a highly intimidating Qunari woman and completely ignoring the disgusted expression she wore. “That’s Knight-Captain Rylen for you, lass.” He drawled as he tapped his helmet with a finger as a casual salute and took the missive from her hand. “Beyond this barricade is the sterile area, you see.” He squinted at the Valo-Kas sigil at the bottom of it. “I’ve seen one of these before. Some of your company had arrived earlier, and they told me you’d be late.” He stared back up at her pointedly and handed the rumpled parchment back. “Sorry, no one’s going up or down for the next three hours under the Commander’s strict order to preserve the already secured area. I suggest you wait in the village. How about I show you and your friends the way to the nearest tavern? I’ve just finished my first watch and am going there myself.” He said lightly as if talking to old friends.

Katoh had opened her mouth, presumably to tell the overly friendly Knight-Captain to fuck off and tell his fucking Commander to take his head out of his arse. But when he said the word ‘tavern’, she paused and turned around to ask the rest of the team. They were staring at her with hopeful eyes akin to a litter of Mabari pups. “Oh fine, I suppose we deserve a break.” She sighed and rubbed her forehead in defeat as the kith cheered their approval. “Tell me they have something stronger than ale.”

“You can ask the bartender yourself.” Rylen grinned. “This way, follow me.”

 

###

 

“Don’t, it’s really not a good idea.”

Rylen turned on his stool to stare questioningly at the Qunari mage sitting next to him. Clearly, he had been caught staring at the lady captain across the room quite inappropriately by her colleague. She was currently engaged in a drinking contest with two other Qunari warriors, and their table was quite rowdy in the typically very calm afternoon in the tavern. “Why? Am I not charming enough for her to see my not-so-honourable intentions? I thought you Qunaris don’t like to complicate things.”

The mage laughed. “On the contrary, she’d be taken by your charms immediately. But not in any way you’re hoping.” He lifted his tankard humorously in salute.

“Figured that out when she looked at me like some sort of an insect sticking under her boot. Still, I only want to have some fun and she seemed that she could handle it.” Rylen shrugged and sipped his ale.

A booming laugh. “You want to have fun? Trust me, that kind of attitude would not help you anywhere near her.”

They glanced simultaneously at the table where Katoh was sitting. She chugged an entire tankard, slammed it on the table, and burped loudly. Her companions dutifully followed her example before bellowing something loudly in Qunlat. It seemed to be a joke because soon after, the three of them roared with laughter and spilled drinks all over the table.

“Yeah well, I live for the lasses, man. I’ll find a way.” Rylen grinned at the sight and turned to the mage, now more interested in him.

He was leaner than most Qunaris he’d ever seen, but no less menacing. The point of his horns curved back and upwards, reminding Rylen of a dragon he once saw from afar in the Hinterlands. The first time he saw him, he thought that there was something curious about his whole person. It had become clearer when he talked.

“So, how come a Tal-Vashoth Qunari can sound like a Fereldan stuck-up nobility when he talks?”

He smiled from behind the lid of his tankard. “The name’s Varuna Adaar, by the way, and I am from the Marches too.”

“Really? Dogshit.”

“I was raised in Ostwick.”

“Andraste’s tits, you’re messing with me.” Rylen laughed. “That is the most improbable place for a Qunari to grow up in. What d’ye think the fortified walls are for?”

“About as improbable as a Qunari with Fereldan accent, don’t you think?”

“I’d say there’s a story in it that I most definitely want to hear. Let me get another tank--”

A thundering sound from up the mountains interrupted their conversation. Some bottles behind the bar crashed onto the floor, and a Qunari who leaned back in his chair fell down, cursing loudly. A flash of green light came through the windows, casting dreadful shadows inside the tavern.

Rylen and Varuna exchanged horrified look before they knocked away their tankards down in a fevered rush, running outside with everyone else following on their heels.

 

###

 

He kept track of the time by counting the demons he killed, like every good soldier. It came to him as naturally as recalling the words of the chant when he prayed in the solitude of his bedroom every night. With every swing of his sword, he actually did recite some lines from the verses in his mind that triggered bits of memories from his time before Kirkwall. They came more easily now, and it convinced him that the constant burn of lyrium thirst in his throat was worth keeping his mind intact.

By the time he had slain 5 demons, the verse in his head was _though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide_ , the memory of him lying on his mother’s lap with the light from the beeswax candles in his parents’ room. His father watched them from the threshold, a peaceful look on his scarcely lined face.

At 10 it was _blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter_. His older sister’s face came into mind. They were kneeling in a small Chantry in Honnleath. He was five years old and didn’t understand why she was crying.

At 13 he was distracted from his memories. He stood near the end of the path further up the mountains and into the temple, helping the loaned Fereldan soldiers defend the fourth barricade. The first wave of demons hit them hard and they lost half of the team to sudden Wraith attacks before reinforcements came. They also had lost a group of scouts in the mountain path. There was no way of sending anyone to retrieve them.

At 25 he got a report about a miraculous survivor who had been found in the remains of the temple and was currently under Seeker Pentaghast’s custody. The news prompted him to ask about the Divine and the possibility of her survival, but the messenger told him that such miracle was asking too much of the Maker’s hand and Andraste might as well step into the battle herself to help them with her flaming sword.

At 40 Knight-Captain Rylen, who had been standing by near the village in the valley since the beginning of the talk, barrelled through a wall of demons with his own squad. Following them was a Qunari kith spearheaded by a towering Female Qunari who cut through two Lesser Shades’ heads with a greatsword.

“Commander!” Rylen hollered. “We have secured the bridge. Counsellor Roderick is there right now. He insisted to be involved in everything.”

Cullen groaned in annoyance. Making a swift decision, he pulled a half-dazed young scout who was cowering behind the barricade. “Tell whoever is in charge down there to _not listen_ to everything Roderick says. Distract him with some nonsense about supply caches or whatever. Go, run!” The scout jerked at his command and ran down the mountain in a panicked rush, taking a less demon-infested path.

“Hey, you the commander?” The Female Qunari yelled at the top of her lungs. She made her way to him by physically knocking down a Terror Demon.

Cullen nodded briskly as he lifted his shield and turn his back on her to survey their surroundings for more enemies. “Who’s asking?”

“Katoh, leading the seventh kith from Valo-Kas Mercenary Company. These demons will cost you extra, but don’t worry. We’ll give some discount because this is so much better than guarding some grumpy old folks arguing about shit.” She shouldered her weapon offhandedly. “Oh, and we’ll put our drinks in your tab too.”

“Drinks?”

“That’s on me, ser. I’m responsible for them.” Rylen bounded back to his side after tearing a Lesser Shade in half. He winced at the commander’s frown. “I…was off duty, I swear by the Maker--”

Cullen turned back to Katoh. “Report the status of your team.”

“Me, my greatsword, one Ashaad, Taarlok with his bow, Meraad with his axe over there, and my second-in-command, Adaar. He’s a mage, specialty in fire and healing. His barriers are crap. Thankfully, we don’t have much need for them.”

“I can hear you!” Adaar shouted from near a clearing where he threw some fireballs at a Wraith in the distance.

“Keep roasting those demons!” She yelled back. “There you go, ser. We’re fully operational.” She swung the greatsword on her shoulder down and stabbed the tip lightly to the ground with a mocking grin.

Cullen nodded and pointed to the ruins of the temple up ahead. “We’re going to clear the path to the temple. Make sure to dispose every single demon in sight. Don’t want to jeopardise the evacuation team later.”

“I got you.” Katoh lifted her greatsword and shouted, “Kill them all, assholes!”

Her kith roared back their approval of her sentiment and charged through a new wave of demons upfront.

Cullen took the momentary distraction as a chance to focus back on his breathing. _What was the number?_ A shade appeared suddenly on his side, having escaped the assault of one of the Qunaris a dozen feet away. He stabbed it hard and slashed its middle. _This is 41_.

“Move further up the path!” He yelled to the scattered soldiers behind him. “The Qunaris will break through the demon wave first, make sure none of them escape.”

“Aye, commander!”

“Hey blonde fuzz!” Came a voice from ahead, most likely Katoh’s.

Cullen turned to the call in confusion. Did she just call him--?

“I think we found a fucking tear on the veil!”

 

###

 

After arguing with her about what to do with the ‘tear on the veil,’ as Katoh referred to it, Cullen decided to leave a couple of his soldier behind to guard it, accompanied by Taarlok from the kith. However, they ran into two other of those things on their way to the ruins and they were quickly running out of men. At the third ‘tear,’ Meraad agreed to guard it by himself, seemingly eager to challenge himself into obliterating a lesser shade before it fully crossed the veil, therefore separating the head and the body. Ashaad dismissed this notion, “Once you cut them, they all poof and gone or get all slimy.” Meraad insisted that the excitement is gained through the effort of proving this fact wrong.

“Ignore these jokers, we’re going up.” The Qunari leader sighed. “You coming, Ashaad?” Katoh barked.

“Boss, I gotta make sure he doesn’t do something stupid.” Ashaad shrugged.

Cullen turned around to assess what’s left of them. There were five more soldiers—two Fereldan, two Chantry Knights, and Rylen—behind him alongside Katoh and Adaar.

“The huge rift above the temple, the damn source of all this madness, would probably be much more troublesome.” Adaar grumbled.

“Yeah there would be a lot of demons there, I get it.” Katoh clicked her tongue. “Probably should wait for reinforcement, but I don’t fucking care. Let’s move.”

“Wait!” Rylen exclaimed from the back of their line. He saw something coming from the direction of the valley. “I think our first guards are going up!”

Shortly after, Taarlok bounded lightly up the rocky path to greet his comrades. “Some lady managed to close the tear with her glowing hand.”

“Brother, are you still drunk?” Ashaad shoved him hard. He pushed back in annoyance. “Fuck no, ask the hairy eyeball guys!”

“It’s true, ser.” The chantry soldier behind him tittered in disbelief. “It was a miracle! The Seeker, the elf, and the dwarf were accompanying her and they were going around taking the mountain path. They wanted to find out what happened with the scouting party.”

Cullen nodded in understanding. The lady with the glowing hand must be the miraculous survivor that Cassandra had found in the ruins. Some of the soldiers started to whisper to each other in amazement. He could hear the name ‘Andraste’ spoken more than once. The words of a scout earlier came into his mind. Was it really possible that Herself had actually appeared among them with Her ‘flaming sword’? Refusing to dwell in what he, as a man who went to the Chantry regularly, even thought as an outlandish possibility, Cullen gathered himself to prepare for the peak of the battle.

“Then we better clear the temple before they got there. Men, take stock of your limbs and get ready.” He ordered the remaining soldier.

“Taarlok, stay behind Adaar and make a line behind me. We’re going in with a bang.” Katoh pointed her greatsword forward and ran straight up to the ruins with a roar, leaving everyone behind. Taarlok and Adaar exchanged looks of amusement before following her.

Rylen, blood-streaked and slime-drenched, let out a laugh and yelled, “Don’t let the Qunaris finish all of them before we got there!”

Overly excited and newly motivated, the rest of the soldiers concurred with a unified battle cry and started to shuffle around to find their place in assault formation.

“Commander?”

As they all stared at him, waiting for his words, his last coherent thought was that the rush of the battle almost rendered the ever-present lyrium thirst completely nonexistent.

And then he returned to his numbers again. 63 was the answer for the simple math problem her sister had scrawled on the ground for him, in the garden beside their humble house where his father had been lying for three days without saying a word. The numbers on the mud lined up, 20 + 59 – 16....

He hoped he would reach 100 before the fight was over or his soul fell into the void.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos, kudos, my blood for kudos.  
> Or comments, please.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, kudos, my blood for kudos.


End file.
